


Tread softly, Fraulein

by amatviktoriacuram



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1960s, Alternate Universe - Communist Germany, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Military Police, Alternate Universe - Muggle, BAMF Hermione Granger, Biting, Communist setting, Dark Hermione Granger, Dumbledore is a Western agitator, East Berlin, East Germany, Eventual Smut, F/M, Hair-pulling, Hate Sex, Hermione Granger is a secretary, Hermione Granger is his agent, Manipulative Albus Dumbledore, Office Sex, Porn With Plot, Sexual Tension, Smut, Tom Riddle is a Stasi officer, Tomione Smut Fest 2020, so be aware of that, state exams what state exams, this just happened
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:21:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24477133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amatviktoriacuram/pseuds/amatviktoriacuram
Summary: “The Oberstleutnant likes his secretaries smart. You’ll do well, Fraulein Granger.”Or the one in which Dumbledore is a Western agitator wanting to bring down the most infamous hunter of the Stasi, the Dark Lord. He sends in his best agent, Hermione Granger, but is she his agent, after all?Tomione Smut Fest 2020 | Muggle AU
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Tom Riddle
Comments: 31
Kudos: 151
Collections: Tomione Smut Fest 2020





	Tread softly, Fraulein

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [TomioneSmutFest20](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/TomioneSmutFest20) collection. 



> This little something is my entry for the Tomione Smutfest 2020, hosted by weestarmeggie. Many thanks to my amazing friends Petra (niquesse here on AO3) and Csenge who cheered me on all the way and are my betas in crime, your imput is invaluable to me and I am eternally greatful that both of you put up with me on daily basis in the last few weeks. I could never imagine better ears to run my ideas by.
> 
> That said, all mistakes remaining are my own. As to the historical aspect of this work, I chose East Berlin in 1963 - just after the Wall was built between the free Western part and the communist Eastern part of the city. I am Eastern-European myself so am aware of all the bad feelings this setting could trigger in some - this is the romance of a Stasi secret police officer and his secretary, both dubious characters - so be aware of the context. Tom Riddle is his own warning though, so I hope all of you will enjoy reading _Tread Softly, Fraulein_ as much as I've enjoyed writing it.
> 
> Tomione Smutfest Prompt: Muggle AU

East Berlin  
German Democratic Republic  
1963

She saw him first one blazing summer afternoon.

She was gossiping with her friends at the tables of the confectionery, enjoying the rare taste of real chocolate in the cones, a dribble of the icy confection slowly making its way down her index finger, slowly licking it away with the tip of her tongue as his tall dark frame appeared. The Dark Lord, as they called him, was the most dangerous man of the Stasi. He was also the most handsome man she had ever seen, no softness to his face, all angles and sharpness. He turned his head towards the small shop and his eyes found hers from under the brim of his shield, dark pools blazing ice cold in the August sun. He said something to one of his men without turning, clipped tone resonating, his voice carrying to her ears unintelligibly. The only meaning she perceived was the sudden loss of colour in his subordinate’s countenance. Oberstleutnant Riddle didn’t raise his voice, didn’t even look at him. The command he possessed was both terrifying and fascinating, it wrapped around him and shimmered like the heat embracing the city, coming off the concrete in waves, making the weak hide away, protecting themselves from its force, only a few daring to meet its all consuming violence. It was in his gait, the way he carried himself, the force of his gaze as he studied her back, making a shiver uncurl down her spine. 

He demanded attention only when he wanted to be seen.

“Do you have a death wish, Hermione? Don’t measure him like that.” Ginny hissed. “Lower your eyes right now.”

Hermione looked at her, a crease appearing between her brows. “What do you mean?”

“Death is not a lover, Hermione.” Ginny whispered, her voice laced with fear.

But as she glanced back from under her lashes at Oberstleutnant Riddle’s retreating form, she knew it was.

***

Weeks later, in the abandoned basement, Dumbledore studied her.

“I am not sending you in there lightly. You’re one of my best, Hermione, it would sadden me deeply if something happened to you.”

The old man didn’t ask if she wanted to go. He was the kind of person advocating democracy and freedom, but he didn’t ask for opinions much. He listened and nodded, patted them on the head, but in the end, he was the one marionette master tugging all the strings. His ideals of Western Capitalism were opinion autocracy of their own, dictating the worship of the unreachable, the idea that could only thrive on the pages of academic journals. His feigned concern was endearing though, the act perfected in the years he pronounced himself a leader of the free youth. He wasn’t an unintelligent man, but in the fear of becoming just one of them, the ones grasping for power all their lives, he became something even worse. Someone without clear direction, accumulating influence, appointing himself a saviour from oppression while crying wolf at every questioning gaze.

The problem with puppet masters was how they tended to forget that what they mastered was all just a play. That the threads could snap, making the puppets collapse.

***

Her reassignment came days later. When she entered the Stasi Headquarters the other secretary, Bella, mistook her trembling as nervous jitters and tried to reassure her.

“The Oberstleutnant likes his secretaries smart. You’ll do well, Fraulein Granger.”

It was not nerves she felt but anticipation.

As she entered his office, he beckoned her to sit in one of the chairs facing him. Sitting behind his mahogany desk, brass buttons gleaming on his neatly pressed uniform, Oberstleutnant Thomas Marvolo Riddle was like a dormant snake, not leaving a trace of doubt that if provoked, he would bite. He regarded her steadily, missing nothing, danger lurking in the depth of eyes so dark his pupils couldn’t be discerned in the bleak light. His long, deft fingers disappeared into his breast pocket, emerging with a packet of Kent. He shook out a cigarette, slowly tapping the butt on the table. Once. Twice. 

“You have quite an interesting backstory, Fraulein. Recommendations praising your intelligence and skills.” Her papers were neatly lined up before him, the folder opened to her picture, bright red ink marking her approved, trustworthy. His gaze never left hers as the lighter flared. He lifted the cigarette to his mouth, exhaling smoke as the silver cap loudly clicked back to its place. Suddenly he leaned in, the snake uncoiling, burning cigarette pointing at her like a poisonous fang. “However, they all conveniently forget one small detail, a detail which makes the two of us quite alike, _Fraulein Granger_.” Barely above a whisper, his voice still cut into her, poking at an itch she just couldn’t quite scratch. She raised her left eyebrow slightly, thinly veiled provocation in every move, willing him to continue. She was confident in her capability, of her having what it took to work for him. His smirk was cruel, violence lurking at the corners of his lips. He pulled the cigarette back to it, breathing it in, sudden madness disappearing in a blink of the eye. “Wherever you go, Fraulein, people seem to disappear.”

He exhaled the sentence, hanging it between them, mingled with smoke, linking them. He lifted the cigarette, inhaling calm and unhurried.

She rose slowly, matching his smirk, bending over the table while smoke billowed around them, taking the cigarette from his fingers, lifting it to her lips and taking a deep drag. He followed the movement, something dark flaring in his gaze. He did not move to stop her, did not move at all.

“You paid close attention, Oberstleutnant. If I did make people disappear, you should have me in cuffs, thrown into a ditch and yet we’re here, making idle conversation.” Her tone was neutral, lowering herself back to her chair unhurriedly, amusement crinkling in the corners of her eyes. “You do need me, after all.” At his pointed expression, she turned serious. “Dumbledore thinks he’s invincible. But the tides are turning.” He leaned back into his chair, meticulously opening the pack again, lighting another cigarette. It dangled from his fingers while he contemplated her, weighting her words, expression unreadable.

“The question is, Fraulein, are you ready to turn with them?” He pronounced the words with a slight edge, the serpent curling up before the attack.

After a last deep drag she exhaled through her nose, glancing at the glowing end where the paper scorched and peeled back from the smouldering tobacco. Her decision was final as she pushed the small orb of brand into her picture between them, burning the paper. “I am the tide, Oberstleutnant.” She said, leaving the butt to roll back and forth on the photograph as she turned to stand.

A laugh emerged from him, full of malice, a mocking edge of mirth making it somehow all the more threatening. “Welcome to the Stasi, Fraulein Granger.”

***

One evening, she was collecting the remains of coffee from the low table, silently cursing the Bulgarian delegation for their abhorrent manners, when he caught her eye again. He sat on the sofa by the fireplace, the crimson velvet upholstery accentuating his classically handsome features, a perfectly cut crystal tumbler of whiskey in one hand, going through records of the day’s actions. He was in a rare state of dishabille, jacket thrown over the back of his desk chair, his crisp white shirt unbuttoned at his throat, sleeves rolled up, his pale skin gleaming in the yellow lamplight, his forearms marred with dark veins and old scars. There was the shadow of a dark sign on his left forearm, his shirt obscuring the mark only visible as his watch found its way onto the table at one point of the evening. That’s where it lay forgotten, tarnished gold setting enclosing the circular clockface, so at odds with the pristine leather straps. She picked it up, running her fingers down the smooth surface of the glass, turning it, catching the faded inscription on the inside.

_14.8.1955._

“Fraulein, we mustn't touch what isn’t rightfully ours.”

“How should I know if it is _rightfully_ yours?”

She placed it back, one last touch to the surface. She gestured to the cigarettes and he nodded his permission as she slipped one out. She settled into a chair, playing with the lighter.

“They say you have a lover in West Berlin.”

He looked up from his reports, a glint of amusement in his eyes, noting her curiosity - indulging her.

“Do they now?” He took a cigarette too, taking the lighter from her fingers, producing the flame with a flair as if performing a magic trick, holding it out for her after lighting his own.

She took a long drag, eyes not leaving his. He was closer now, leaning into her space, a false sense of security suddenly flooding her senses. “They also say you’ve disappeared for ten years after the war.”

“And what do they say about you, Fraulein?”

“They say I’ve fucked myself up to becoming your secretary.”

His gaze left her eyes, travelling down the arc of her throat, the outline of her collarbone under the silk of her shirt, catching on the oval pendant resting just above the button keeping her breasts hidden from him. “Are they now.” His low murmur cut to her core. “Every good rumour has some truth in it, isn’t it?”

A slight lift of her eyebrow, she waited till his eyes burned their way back to hers, irises specked with scarlet waging war against her emerald ones.

“You would know, wouldn’t you, Oberstleutnant?” as his eyes flared, she bent for the abandoned tray and left him to his reports, spine tingling long after she closed the doors on his penetrating gaze.

***

“In my office, Fraulein Granger. _Now_.”

The order echoed through the intercom, voice low, with a steel edge that cut through the static, never missing its target. Pushing herself back from her desk, smoothing down her skirt she stood, picking up a pencil and her notepad. Her heels clicked on the marble floor as she approached the heavy wooden doors. Entering his office, she felt his gaze burning her, tracking every minute move of her body. It made her awareness spike and some long forgotten instinct to run emerged, the heady mix of fear and anticipation overwhelming for a second. Turning towards him, their gazes connected. His dark pools so cold, burning like ice biting into the skin, ignited flames all over her body as she made to sit on one of the leather chairs facing him. The leather creaked as she crossed one leg over her knee, her skirt itching up on her thigh. She felt a stab of satisfaction curling tight inside her as his gaze followed the small slip of the material. 

“I will be out all afternoon, Lestrange will take you home at five. Do you have the full reports?”

“Yes, Oberstleutnant, I’ll finish transcribing today.”

“Very well.” He stood, taking his coat, proffering it to her to help him into it. She obliged, taking the heavy material, covering his shoulders as his arms pulled it taught. “Leutnant Potter was found dead. Apparently, he slipped and hit his head quite badly.”

She smoothed a flint from the dark wool, the tip of her finger brushing against the skin of his throat, just below his ear, leaning up on tiptoes.

“Poor Harry, I told him many times not to rush on slippery tiles.” Her breath tickled his skin, nonplussed and cold was her tone, which made the soft hairs on the nape of his neck stand. He turned to her slowly, bringing his hand to the back of her neck, lightly flexing his fingers, the pressure light but insistent.

A promise.

“Tread softly, Fraulein. The danger you seek might caught up with you in the end.” His fingers disappeared suddenly and he sidestepped her towards the door. By the time she turned, he disappeared.

***

The doors of his office opened and Leutnant Malfoy’s ashened face appeared. It was a sharp contrast to his dark uniform, his pointed face bleached of all colour, his expression haunted. The praise he came for was not delivered apparently, for he didn’t even bother to look at her when he passed her desk. His usual sneer was nowhere, his fingers twitched nervously and his movements were forced, barely kept together as he disappeared into the corridor. There was no blood, no tears, only oppressive silence filling the halls.

The doors remained open after him, so she heard the Oberstleutnant’s low command cutting through the silence.

“Enter, Fraulein Granger. Close the door after yourself.”

She walked into the office, following the orders without real thought.

“The latch too.” She froze. He was standing at the window, back to her. “Do you need it in writing, Fraulein? Lock the door, _now_.”

Her hand moved automatically, at the sharp click of the latch he turned to her, backlit by the bleak afternoon light, expression hard and uncompromising. Eyes never leaving hers, he took a step forward, bringing down his foot with force onto the edge of the carpet. A loud crack echoed through the room with the echoes of a high static screech filling up the silence. At that moment, she understood.

“Now, Fraulein, for the first time, we truly are alone.” He moved to his desk, unhurriedly unbuttoning his jacket, gun holster casually revealed. “I can do whatever I want with you. Tell me, what would you do in my position?” He didn’t raise his voice, the question idle on his tongue, conversational.

She followed his movements, as he tossed the garment aside, rolling his sleeve up, the black stone of his signet ring catching the light, an unnatural calmness settling onto her. He pulsated with barely suppressed rage, the power radiating so at odds with his slow movements, like a storm just moments from breaking loose. All instincts should have been shouting at her to take shelter, to run, hide from his fury, but instead she could feel her own temper starting to shimmer under the calm. It was a long time ago she learned to love the storm, to embrace it and soak up its violence, open her veins to it so its power would never leave her. She welcomed his power like an old friend, getting closer to him, not looking back.

“What position, Oberstleutnant?” Her question was innocent, inquiring.

His lips stretched into a cruel smirk. “Say, Fraulein, that your secretary planted a small transmitting device in your office to threaten national security. What would you do with a woman like that?”

He was only inches away now, towering over her. She matched his expression, her smirk mocking, eyes burning. “A woman like that would probably carry one on herself too, say, pinned in her hair or clipped on the edge of her stocking.”

“She is not suicidal.”

“But she is desperate.”

The next moment, his fingers were in her curls, pulling them roughly, pins clattering on the floor, forcing her head back, arching her spine slightly, throat vulnerable to him. Dark eyes never leaving hers, his other hand came to the hem of her skirt, slowly itching it up, until he reached the lace of her stocking. Her breath hitched as his fingers dipped under the material, branding her skin, expression darkening, the scarlet specks seemingly alive in his irises. His fingers emerged with the small black device between them, the lack of his touch making her ache in ways she didn’t know she could still feel. He took a glance at it, dismissing it unimportant smashing it on the gleaming mahogany of the desk, gaze finding hers again.

“You walk around with a bug in your garters that is not even activated.” There was something dangerous in his expression, something murderous and strangely amused.

“How else should I get you under my skirt, Oberstleutnant?”

He pulled her hair a bit harder, the sting sending a shiver down her spine, making her want more. Her lips parted on a silent moan. His thumb pushed on her lower lip, slipping onto the tip of her tongue, rage and lust waging war in him. She couldn’t look away.

“What should I do with you, Fraulein?” It was the voice of the devil himself, the voice that seduced Eve to take the apple, dripping of sin and deep with wonder and violence. She could feel it in her core as her teeth sunk into his thumb, glorying in the moment his restraint snapped, a hiss on his lips as they crashed hers. His hand on her throat, putting pressure on her pulse, bringing her exactly where he wanted her with the flick of his fingers in her hair, she felt his arousal and his physical power envelope her, powering her own need. Her hands came up to his chest, fisting his shirt, pulling him closer, starched linen cracking between her fingers.

His hand burned a path down from her neck to her breast, her side, her lower back, bringing her alive as he bit down on her lower lip, the pain sweet like salvation. His hand settled on her ass, fingers digging in, sure to leave lilac bruises, guiding her leg around his hips. Her skirt slipped up, polling around her hips revealing black garters taunt under her thigh, the lacy material cutting into her skin. He slipped under the tight band, lifting her higher, the heels of her shoes digging just above the back of his knees, bringing him closer, ever closer. She could feel his breathing becoming ragged through the crisp cotton and thin silk of their shirts, her breast getting heavy in the confines of her bra, straps biting into her shoulders, heightening her senses. She licked a path down his jawline, to his ear, biting down on his earlobe, making him grunt and his hands tightening ever so slightly. She wanted him on her, in her, inside her, his clean smell of sandalwood, smoke and that underlying tone only his enveloping her, closing in around her, senses zeroing in on him. 

She could feel the cold bite of the tabletop against the sensitive skin of her thighs as he threw her down on it, garters popping and tearing away from her stockings. He opened her legs wider, making room for himself, pulling her tight into him. Their panting filled the room as his mouth left her throat, the warm wetness replaced with rough fingertips.

“Look at me.” His command made her blood sing, opening her eyes to the unbidden lust in his, seeing her own need mirrored in the dark orbs. She loved the feel of his silky hair amid her fingers, pulling on it slightly, making him hiss. There was something uncanny and demonic in him, the smudges of her lipstick dark crimson like blood on his lips, perfect hair in disarray, all by her hands, by her, only her. His hands cupped her breasts for a moment, slipping under the lacy silk, buttons popping as he ripped her blouse. She wanted to look down and see his fingers on her breast, to see him unravel her but she couldn’t break away from his gaze, waging a silent battle none of them could ever win.

Her nails dug into his shoulders as he roughly pushed the lace cup of her bra down, breast spilling over, his thumb playing with the stiff nipple, pinching, twisting, making her arch into him. Her hands slipped down his sides, his impossibly dark eyes darken even more as she cupped the length of him, hard and pressing into her hand, eager for her. She squeezed him, eliciting a feral grunt winning the battle for now as he broke eye contact, founding her pulse with his teeth, licking a trail to her collarbone, biting the sensitive spot, sucking on her skin. She was panting, arching her spine, pulling his shirt from his pants, wanting skin on skin, wanting to touch him. Her clothes felt like a prison, confining her, making her whine and ache, begging him with her fingers to ease the discomfort. She felt his hardness just where she wanted him, hot and insistent, kept away by the layers still between them. 

“I need you, Thomas.” His hand found their way into her curls again, fisting them, rolling them around his fingers, murmuring into her neck, words like an incantation, a string of dark hymns written on her skin.

His other hand found its way back under her skirt, pushing the flimsy material of her lace panties from his way, fingers slipping to wetness, spreading her. She threw her head back, tearing at his belt, wrenching it open, sheer determination leading her fingers around his cock, closing like a vice, locking of their own accord. His mouth trailed the veins of her neck, hot and wet, nipping the skin, leaving his marks all the way to her shoulders. Her nails dug into his back, centering her, leaving scratches, matching his ministrations mark for mark, touch for touch. A drop of perspiration rolled down between her breasts as he slipped two fingers into her, making her shudder, her sight blurring as she buried her head into the apex of his neck and shoulder, biting down so to suppress her cry of relief as his fingers moved.

She stroked his length jerkily, fingers slipping, savouring the feel of him, revelling in the slight twitches, the small gasps, the Dark Lord unleashed by her touch. The power she held over him was intoxicating, heightening her pleasure as his fingers moved in her, his mouth closing in on her nipple, biting down. She squeezed him harder, making him murmur her name into her skin. She tugged him up by the hair, crashing her mouth to his in a searing kiss. She whined as his fingers pulled out of her, the cold air slipping into their place, followed by something even more delicious. Their panting became louder, only suppressed by each others lips, not a kiss but something more messy, all tongue and teeth as the head of his cock slipped back and forth on her clit making her arch into him even more. 

The cotton of his shirt felt rough against her nipples, the marks he left on her sensitive skin were tight, tingling, on the slight line between agony and ecstasy. He pushed into her with one agonizingly slow stroke, filling her, making her moan into his mouth, embed her nails into his shoulder blades. His arms locked around her waist, pulling her impossibly close, his shudders reverberating in her as he started to move. He went deeper, harder, their moans filling the air, arms keeping her in place, angling her. It was violent and all-consuming, pent up frustration unleashed into each other. They were close, so close, breathing becoming shallow, their heartbeat a drumming noise inside their head, rushing blood thundering. As the first waves of ecstasy hit them, she cried out, hands in his hair, gripping, pushing him over the edge as his mouth found hers, swallowing the sound. A kaleidoscope of colours behind their eyelids, his forehead fell onto her shoulder buried in the heat of the cataclysm rocking their bodies, wave after wave.

Slowly, the world tilted back on its axis. Their eyes connected, mirroring pools of satisfaction and something deeper, darker, more absolute in them. It felt like coming home as his thumb came up under her eye, smoothing the smudged mascara away, her fingers on his lower lip, erasing the stains of her lipstick. With a decisive motion, he pulled away from her, leaving her on the desk, righting his clothes. 

Her shirt missed a button, a tear run up her stocking and a clasp torn from her garters. She felt the heat of his gaze following her movements as she smoothed the neilon stockings to their place, hooking the garters into them.

There was an intimacy after the crash and burn of sex like that, an intimacy only existing between lovers bathing in the afterglow.

She finished by putting her hair into a presentable bun not bothering with the scattered pins, finding him by the window, a cigarette between his lips, hands buried deep in his pockets, expression hidden by the faint light at his back and the haze of cigarette smoke forming a curtain between them. She walked up to him, taking the cigarette from his lips, bringing it to her own, reapplied lipstick staining the white paper.

“I should kill you.” He murmured, void of emotion. She exhaled slowly, contemplating the concrete buildings outside, the bleak greyness of East Berlin. Bringing the smoke back to her lips, she took a deep drag, offering the cigarette back to him, his fingers brushing hers as he took it.

“You should have.” 

She left him standing there, rolling the end of the crimson stained cigarette between his fingers.

***

“Just a few days more, Hermione. The nation thanks you for your sacrifice.” Dumbledore’s gaze flicked to the small lilac bruises just like fingertips peppered on her neck. “You’ll make him disappear just like the others before him.”

“Of course, Professor.” She smiled at him indulgently, knowing that it wasn’t only her whose days were numbered.

***

The black car arrived at night. Curtains pulled tight shut, the last lamps got switched off. Everyone turned their back, for what you did not see, did not happen. When the Stasi arrived at night, it was better to be oblivious, because even if they did not took you that night, they could come back for you. The Dark Lord emerged from the driver’s side, long coat billowing behind him, snow crouching under his boots as he walked to the door, entering the building. As opposed to the belief, they did politely knock first, it was what came after that wasn’t polite at all.

That freezing night in January, Hermione Granger left her flat for the last time. Escorted to the black car by the Dark Lord of the Stasi, the hunter, the one who made people disappear. They were alike, the Oberstleutnant and her in that regard, but in the end, the Oberstleutnant always outplayed the puppet masters. She went without complaint, for fate could only be avoided for so long. 

He didn’t bother to help her out of the car as they arrived. They entered the dark house, the only light coming from the bedroom at the end of the corridor.

“You kept the necklace.” His fingers came up to trace the thin gold chain around her neck.

“I hope you didn’t rearrange the bookshelves, your sense of order is abhorrent.” Her fingers came up to the corners of his eyes, smoothing away the light creases, free to do it once again.

“Welcome home, Frau Riddle.”

***

Neues Deutschland  
13 January 1964, Monday

In the late hours of 12 January, the Stasi raided the lair of known Western agitators saving our nation from another attack of dubious capitalist machinations. The mission was fruitful, 34 arrests were made. A notable one being Albus Dumbledore himself.

The professor claims innocence but the state attorney’s office promised a thorough trial based on numerous evidence on the contrary. “Thanks to Oberstleutnant Riddle’s timely action, these criminals cease to threaten national security.” The correspondent adds.

***

East Berlin  
German Democratic Republic  
1955

“You’re the only person I trust with this.” 

She squeezed his hand. “I want him to pay for what he’s done to us, Thomas.”

His mouth came to hers one last time, lingering as the train's last whistle echoed through the station. She broke away, smoothing a lock of dark hair from his brows.

“This is not a goodbye.” Her voice was hard, willing him to believe in her. In them.

“When the time comes, we’ll meet again, _Fraulein Granger_.”

He watched as the train pulled away from the platform, burying Thomas Marvolo Riddle's memory with that of his wife, leaving only Leutnant Riddle disappearing into the crowd of the streets of East Berlin.

**Author's Note:**

> The inspiration for this fic came in the form of a book by Brianna Hale, titled Midnight Hunter. It is the story of a Stasi officer basically kidnapping a woman who wanted to defect East Berlin, making her his secretary and training her to become his lover. The idea of Tom as a Stasi officer struck me with force and seemed more than fitting. I played around with the idea for months when the Tomione Smutfest announcement arrived. The stars really did align for once.
> 
> So this fic happened and I am very proud of it. Usually I don't finish my writing projects, so this _is_ a big thing for me. I am very thankful to all of you who decided to bare with me this long, please leave kudos, comments, share your thoughts with me in the comments below if you'd like, I am always open for constructive criticizm or some fangirling.
> 
> If you have time, please check out all the stories from the Smutfest, they are all fantastic and worth a read! :)
> 
> That sad, I'd like to give you some historical context - feel free to skip it or shout at me in the comments of you think I got something wrong.
> 
> After the second world war, all of Eastern-Europe became part of the Soviet block. Germany was literally cut in half and as for Berlin, separated by a conrete wall from 1961 to 1989. Every country of the Eastern block was supervised by secret polices such as the Stasi, who came for those who dared utter their dismay with black cars at night. This anecdote still lives in our countries, our grandparents still tell the stories - here, I took the liberty to apply those to East Germany too.
> 
> I came across a lot of misconceptions about this era on social media outlets regarding the categorization of the political systems and views. The communist regimes in these countries were not fascists. Fascism and nazism were the ground of Hitler's regime before and during the second world war. After 1945, both the Western and Eastern German country fought against the remains of that regime, so please, don't cathegorize them as such.
> 
> On a lighter note, the incident with Leutnant Potter is based on a real assassination that happened in the Soviet Union that got covered by saying that the person in question slipped on the tiles of the corridor, hitting his head the wrong way. I am sorry that I cannot tell you the name, I've learned about it in high school and it was a long time ago.


End file.
